


The Queen's Assassin (Gotta Serve Somebody Overdub)

by Isis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Badass Arya, F/F, Post-Canon, Queen Shireen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valar dohaeris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Assassin (Gotta Serve Somebody Overdub)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [originally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In the Twilight Kingdom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725392) by [originally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally). 



"You do not need to go," said the kindly man. "It is only that you are well familiar with King's Landing, and with the Red Keep. And you say you do not know this man Qyburn."

"I will give this man the gift, I know him not," said the girl. It was the ritual answer, and mostly true. He had been one of the Bloody Mummers, when she had been Nan the serving girl, Lord Bolton's cupbearer, but she had never been victim to the black magic that he was reputed to wield. He was not one who had been on her list. 

Later he had become Cersei's maester, she had learned, and her master of whispers. After King Tommen ceded and the Dowager Queen fled back to Casterly Rock to lick her wounds and plan revenge, he remained in hiding in King's Landing, carrying out his experiments and working his evil magic. This made him a danger to the new young queen who sat the Iron Throne, and so her advisers had come to Braavos, to the House of Black and White, to make the necessary arrangements.

He looked her up and down, and she met his gaze. "Who are you?"

"I am no one."

"There was a girl called Arya Stark who came to us from Westeros."

"That girl and her family are all dead." 

"Not all. Her sister rules in the north. Or she will, when Winterfell is rebuilt. At the moment, she is paying her respects to Queen Shireen Baratheon in King's Landing. I'm sure she would welcome a visit from her long-lost sister."

Only her training kept her from laughing at this. Sansa, welcome her? They had not been friends when their father was beheaded, and they would not be friends now. She studied his face. Like hers, it gave nothing away.

"Is it your wish that Arya Stark visit her sister in King's Landing?" she asked at last.

"Sometimes there is no better disguise than one's own face," said the kindly man. "It would be natural for sisters to wish to be reunited. But alas, Arya Stark is not here. There is only no one."

She thought about it. "If Arya goes to King's Landing, what will become of her when the thing is done?"

"Perhaps she will return to her Pentoshi husband. Perhaps she will return to the small trading house in Braavos where she works for an old man who is as a father to her. Perhaps her ship will founder and be lost at sea." He spread his hands. "Who knows?"

Finally, she nodded. "Valar morghulis."

"Valar dohaeris." His gaze became sharp, as though he could look into her heart. "And do not forget who it is that you serve."

* * *

It was strange to be Arya Stark again. It was almost as though she still played a role, as though Arya was no more her identity than Cat or Beth or Mercedene. But as she had inhabited those faces, she learned this new Arya. Needle, retrieved from its hiding place, felt more like a prop than a possession. When she stepped onto the continent of Westeros for the first time in nearly six years, she told herself: This is where I am from. This is my home. And maybe it worked, because the words she needed in the Common Tongue came easily to her mouth, with no telltale accent to betray the time she'd spent across the Narrow Sea.

She dreamed of traveling the Riverlands, growing lush again after the long winter. In her dreams she loped toward King's Landing, stopping here and there to catch rabbits or other small prey; when she woke, she knew that Nymeria was coming to meet her. Part of her was gladdened by the prospect of being with her direwolf again. But how could she bring her back to Braavos, a city of canals and buildings with no place for her to run, and nothing for her to eat but rats?

To her surprise, Sansa hugged her warmly. "I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead. But instead you have become a Braavosi. I have to say, the colors suit you well. Even if your dark purple and black does clash with my grey and white." A wry smile played across her lips. "Not to mention my hair!"

That got a genuine smile out of Arya. Covertly she studied her sister. Sansa had changed, of that there was no doubt. She had clearly developed a sense of humor, and also, as was apparent from the stories she told of her life after Arya had fled from King's Landing, a fine sense of self-preservation. 

Good. If she were to be Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North – positions that Arya hastened to assure her she had not the slightest interest in – she would need those abilities.

"But you will come and stay with me sometimes, when I have restored Winterfell?"

"If I visit Westeros again, yes."

"When you visit Westeros again," Sansa corrected her. "I know you have made your home in Braavos, but you will always have a place here with me."

"It must have been awful, to walk among the fallen towers and burned forests."

"It was." There was a wealth of emotion in those simple words. "But I will rebuild, I promise. And if you choose to stay in Westeros –"

"I will see you if I visit. But I will not stay in Westeros," said Arya firmly. 

It was a lie, though she did not know it at the time.

* * *

The task was accomplished quickly, with a minimum of fuss. It was possible that nobody noticed Qyburn's disappearance from King's Landing; at some point Cersei, in her exile, would realize that it had been a long time since she'd heard from him, but that would doubtless take some days, if not weeks or months. She took care that nobody noticed her on the streets. She was only the sister of one of the Queen's guests. She was a shadow. She was no one.

"Queen Shireen has expressed interest in meeting you," said Sansa, not long after.

She wondered whether her advisers had told her they had hired one of the Faceless Men to kill her rival's spy in the capital. She wondered whether they suspected that the Faceless Man had, in fact, been a woman. She wondered whether they suspected it had been her. But she only said, "It would be an honor to meet the Queen of Westeros," and let Sansa arrange a net of jewels across her cropped hair.

She had not expected a regal girl of her own age, with a face of hardened, cracked skin, and diamond-sharp eyes. From her experience with Izembaro's mummers, she knew that strong men and beautiful women generally won out over others who were not so gifted. People listened to strong men and beautiful women and ignored those who were neither. 

Queen Shireen Baratheon was not beautiful. But she, out of all the claimants, had gained the Iron Throne. 

The Queen nodded to her guards, and they moved to the edges of the room. Far enough away that their conversation would be private. Close enough that they could rush to the Queen's aid if her visitor turned out to be a threat, Arya supposed. Well, she certainly wouldn't tell them that she could kill the Queen in eight different ways before either of the guards could put a hand on his sword. 

"How good it is to meet you, Arya Stark," said the Queen. Then her voice dropped, so the guards along the walls could not hear. "We thank you for your service to the crown."

"But I've done nothing, Your Grace."

It seemed to her that Queen Shireen narrowed her eyes; it was hard to tell, under the greyscale. "I'm not stupid. Arya Stark, who has spent the last six years in Braavos, home of the infamous Faceless Men, comes to visit King's Landing. A short time later, one of our enemies vanishes. What a coincidence." The corner of her mouth untouched by the scaling turned up in a smile. "Don't worry. I don't think anybody else has guessed – I don't think even Ser Davos has guessed." Ser Davos was the Queen's Hand. 

Arya shrugged. "I still have done no service to the crown. I am sworn to a god of Braavos, and anything I may have done was in his service." 

"The Many-Faced God."

"I am surprised Your Grace has heard of him."

"As a child, I read a lot. Books about history, books about gods. There wasn't much else to do. And my parents were – " she hesitated, then finally said, with a delicate emphasis, "interested in the gods." The queen reached out a hand to touch Arya on the arm. "I should like to hear of your god, and of your service."

* * *

Arya spent the afternoon with Queen Shireen, and much of the following day as well, telling her stories about Braavos. The queen told stories, too: stories of Castle Black, of the giants and wildlings and the great Wall of ice. And of course, of Arya's brother Jon Snow, who had become Lord Commander of the Watch. Shireen did not embroider her stories or pretend to know more about Jon than she did. She did not shudder when she described the burnings, nor flinch from recounting the battle deaths. 

Arya listened, and considered. There was more to this queen than met the eye, steel behind her mask of hardened skin. It was only a face, after all; and Arya knew about faces.

She knew she should return to Braavos. Sansa was making preparations for her journey back to Winterfell. If she did not return to Braavos, at least she should go with Sansa, as her sister begged her, and see her old home once more.

Nymeria roamed the Crownlands restlessly. King's Landing was a city, no place for a direwolf. The North would be a better place for her. 

But Arya did not take ship for Braavos. Neither did she join her sister's train. Instead she walked the streets of King's Landing, invisible as a shadow, listening to talk in the taverns and brothels. She learned three new things – at least – every day. 

She also spent time with the queen, or as much time as the two of them could contrive. There was the business of the court, and meetings of the council, and Arya watched them from the shadows, with her own eyes when it was a public meeting, with some small creature's eyes when it was not. Then there were the quiet hours when they walked together in the gardens, or drank wine and ate roast meat with fruit, with bored guards in the corners of the room and Patchface capering before them.

And then there were the even quieter hours, when they were alone in the queen's bedchamber. In her bed. 

"I have heard," said Shireen, "that some hedge-knight from Dorne has been trying to buy support for the former Princess Myrcella."

"Have you, Your Grace," murmured Arya blandly. She traced her fingers up the inside of Shireen's thigh, followed them with her lips.

"Don't 'Your Grace' me. At least, not while you're doing that. And I have further heard that this Dornishman recently broke his neck when he was thrown from his horse."

"Did he, Your Grace."

"It seems to me," said Shireen, "that several of the enemies of the crown have had misadventures lately."

"Have they, Your –" She broke off, laughing, when Shireen threw a pillow at her head.

"It occurs to me that perhaps a certain servant of the Many-Faced God might have something to do with this."

Arya uncoiled herself from the queen's lap. "The Dornish knight's fall was not the work of any servant of the Many-Faced God."

"No? Then whose work was it, do you know?"

She reached for the queen's hands, placing her own hands so they lay between Shireen's, in the ancient gesture of fealty. "The work of a servant of Her Grace Shireen Baratheon, First of Her Name."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Twilight Kingdom: The Remixes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723980) by [originally reads (originally)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally%20reads)




End file.
